Caged Together
by InsecureLemon
Summary: With the Archdemon dead and the Blight quickly following, the Hero of Ferelden has lost her purpose. So, she returns to the only world she was ever supposed to know: The Tower of Magi. Fem!AmellxCullen; Post-Origins, sequel to "Birds of a Feather".
1. Chapter 1

**Caged Together**

Chapter 1

And so the battle was over, the Arch Demon defeated and the majority of the Blight slaughtered.

And the Civil War had been put down, Loghain had been executed, and Alistair had assumed his rightful place on the Throne, as King of Ferelden.

And she was at a loss. She didn't know what to do.

There were no more darkspawn to kill, no wars to stamp out, and no ridiculously impossible quests to set out on.

She had been content for a while, hanging around Denerim and helping to rebuild. But now things were actually beginning to get back on track. Which meant fewer distractions.

For everybody.

So people were beginning to take notice of her. A lot of notice.

It was like the coronation all over again. Constantly.

And they would give her strange looks—sometimes of curiosity, sometimes of admiration, and sometimes of just plain fear_._

And she didn't know which was worse.

She also had less work to busy herself with. Which meant that her mind started to wander—usually back to things she would have preferred not to think about.

Like Alistair. And Morrigan. And Alistair and Morigan.

But, she had agreed to it. Encouraged it, even. And she was truly, incredibly grateful for all of the witch's help.

But that didn't stop the images.

And though she had made sure that she had been very, _very_ far away at the time, her mind filled in the gaps and forced her to view its creation, no matter how hard she tried to block it out.

It made her feel sick to her stomach.

Leliana had done her best to cheer the Warden up. And it had worked… for a while. But, even with her friend's vast number of adventures to tell, she could only hear the same stories and songs jokes so many times. And eventually, even the bard had run out distractions.

The city was unnerving. And suffocating. And she could only take so many people and their failed attempts at discretion and whispering and pointing so many times a day.

Camp was awkward. And quiet— especially now that two of their once-companions were gone. And she was tired of the glances that she got from Leliana and Wynne when they thought she was busy with something else and wasn't paying attention. It was as if they were expecting her to break down and start crying—or go off on some mad, homicidal rampage—at any moment.

And so one night she gathered her companions around the fire and, with Dog at her side, told them her plan:

She was going to go back to the Tower.

"What?" Zevran stared at her, "The Tower? Of Magi? But is that not the very same place that you so often referred to as a 'cage'? Why would you willingly return to such a life?"

"It wishes to return to the Tower?" Shale sounded almost amused. "No doubt it misses frolicking alongside its own kind. And here I was under the impression that it _enjoyed_ its freedom."

"I am not so sure I understand," Leliana said slowly, "You want to go back? But— what for? Are you not happy with our travels? I think that it is sweet that you wish to return to your home, however…"

"If the girl wants to stick herself back in a sodding _prison_ and live with a buncha tight-wad ass-wipes for the rest of her life, I say let her," Oghren grunted as he crossed his arm, averting his eyes from the group.

Wynne shot the dwarf a stern look then turned back to the younger mage. "I can't say I was expecting this," she said in her calm voice, "Though I would be lying if I said that I was unhappy about your decision. But please, do tell us _why_ you are planning on returning."

"Yes, explain yourself, Kadan."

And she just shrugged. "Well, I don't know what _else_ to do. I mean," she paused, "You all seem to know what you're going to do now…. But I don't. Not really. Truly, I never thought I'd leave the Tower in the _first_ place, so... So I never put any thought into what I would do if I _did_ get out of there. Aside from fighting darkspawn and everything, I mean."

And so the following morning she said farewell to her friends and gave them the hopeful offer to "drop by anytime" and the promise to see them all again someday.

Leliana had been close to tears. Oghren had 'gotten some ale in his eyes' and had been rubbing them furiously for the duration of her departure. Zevran had woe'd his heart out, saying that "Fate was such a cruel mistress" and that "Such a beautiful girl should not be confined to such an ugly prison" and that she should "be free to wander the countryside as she pleased—and perhaps consider taking up a position as an assassin as well, no?" Shale had sent her off with the warning to look out for birds ("The nasty little things.") and to try not to get squashed into a pulp by something no-doubt larger and less squishy than she was. Even Sten, it seemed, was standing just a _little_ bit stiffer than usual as nodded once and told her to keep her skills sharp. Wynne had been the last to speak to her, saying that she expected to see her again in the fairly near future and asking her to give Irving and the others her best regards.

And, with her things packed up and her goodbyes said and her faithful Mabari at her side, Amell headed west.

She had walked part of the way and hitch-hiked the rest.

She got her rides from refugees, mostly, hoping to find their hometown at least a _little_ bit intact now that the Blight was over; the rest had been from merchants trying to find somewhere to set up shop and sell their few remaining and undamaged goods to the desperate towns that wished to so rebuild, hoping to use whatever profit they could bring in to help _themselves_ get back up on _their_ feet.

But whichever category they fell into, the people that she encountered were usually more than happy to give her a ride. Because, versus the possibility of running into any darkspawn stragglers, the idea of traveling along-side a friendly-enough girl with magic at disposal was a _very_ appealing idea—made even more so by the Mabari war-hound at her side.

The people were kind enough and she was friendly enough, exchanging pleasantries and light-hearted conversation as they traveled. She would even go so far to consider the trips calm and peaceful, even enjoyable.

Until she made the mistake of telling one of the refugee families her name. And thus was bombarded with stares and questions and requests for tales of her adventures and battles.

That ride hadn't ended soon enough.

And really, the only trouble she ran into was a small, rag-tag group of bandits and scavengers who were "cleaning up" a recently abandoned caravan.

But she had been too tired to fight or argue or even tell them to stop what they were doing. So she had handed them ten sovereign for passage through their blockade.

And then she reached Redcliffe. And they, like the rest of Ferelden, were busy rebuilding.

But they had noticed her, and they had welcomed her.

And for once, she was happy to be recognized. Because that meant friendly, familiar faces. And a bed.

And for Dog, it meant food. Actual, honest-to-Andraste food. Like cow.

She had stayed for a few days, allowing herself to become side-tracked with helping to fix up the village.

And she saw Valena and Bella and Katilyn and Bevin and Berwick and Ser Perth.

And she learned who had died.

And then she said her goodbyes again (much to Dog's unhappiness), now rested and a little more light-hearted and eager to finish up the remainder of the journey.

It took her two sun-ups and one two-downs to reach Lake Calenhad, arriving the late night of the second day.

And after greeting a rather surprised-looking Kester and clambering, with Dog, into his boat, she was on her way across the lake as the looming structure grew bigger and bigger with each stroke the oar.

- o -

The Tower was cold.

And dark.

And empty.

And when she creaked open the massive oak doors she was greeted by the smell of damp stone and a hint of copper and ash.

But nothing else.

And for a panicked moment she thought that the Tower might have suffered another attack.

And her heart sped up and her body stiffened and she grasped her staff, her suspicious feelings backed by Dog's low growl that sounded beside her.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a thin flash of metal in the dim light just feet away from where she stood, and she heard Dog bark and slam against something as he leaped into the shadows at whatever was lurking out just out of sight, followed by the crash and scraping of what she had come to know as armor hitting stone and the clang of something metallic skirting away.

And then she heard the very startled, very human cry of "Oof—!"

"Dog." she said sharply, "Dog, yield."

And the Mabari gave a low whine and she heard the trot of his nails on the Tower floor as he returned into her field of vision and sat down at her side, a quiet growl still sounding in his throat.  
But adrenaline still rushed through her veins and her eyes scanned the darkness, ready to cast at the slightest sign of movement.

"Who's there?" she hissed as her palm lit up with mana and the faint crackle of electricity sounded as it jumped between her digits, "Show yourself."

.X.x.X.

Cullen had volunteered to take the night-watch. Again.

After all, it wasn't like he had anything _else_ to do.

He had tried, at one point, to quiet his nerves; to trade them in for a restful sleep. But he soon gave up.  
Because when he slept, he dreamt. And, plagued by images of charred corpses and fallen comrades and twisted, hellish versions of a girl he would rather forget, his sleep offered him no more comfort than his waking hours.

Often, it was worse.

Because in his dreams he saw their faces. Clearly, perfectly. More so than he ever did when he was awake. And the demons of the Fade saw, too.

And they relished in them.

And, just when he thought that his dreams couldn't get any worse, they did.

Because the demons took them and twisted them and morphed them one after another, each nightmare even more terrible than the last.  
And he would wake up sweating, screaming, just _begging_ for them to stop.

And, sometimes, his dreams were of _her_.

And that was what he feared most of all.

And she would come, just like she had in the Tower, surrounded by her companions, intent on putting a stop to Uldred's madness.

And he would wait there, in his circle-cage, for her return.

But when she finally _did_ return, she did so dead; bloodied, bruised, and broken— almost beyond recognition— limp, in a laughing Uldred's arms.

Or sometimes she would return as an Abomination.

Or blood-puppet.

And each time, Cullen found himself waking, gasping for air, and resisting the urge to run up to the Harrowing Chamber just to check that everything was okay.

Then, even still, there were the dreams that mimicked what he had been taunted with by the Maleficar during his imprisonment; dreams, nightmares, that would show her— calm and quiet and at peace, speaking to him in a voice that he once would have given _anything_ to hear her use as she watched him and smiled at him and ran her hands over him.

No, Cullen had given up on slumber, taking instead to patrolling the halls at night, ever-vigilant despite his constant exhaustion, watching for even the _slightest_ sign of disturbance.

And as he was pacing corridors that branched off of the tower's foyer, Cullen heard, magnified by the vast, deserted halls, the scraping of wood on stone, followed by the thud and the latch of the oak doors.

Cullen went rigid.

_What now? _

No bandit, no matter how crazy or cocky or desperate, would try and break into the Circle Tower, home to mages and Templars alike. And though Cullen didn't know for certain, he was _pretty _sure that demons and abominations didn't use doors.

So that left the Maleficar.

He grimaced, steeling himself. And his hand went to the hilt of his sword and he moved forward in the darkness, surprisingly swift and reticent for one so heavily armored.

And as he drew closer to the foyer, Cullen could begin to make out the silhouette of whomever, or whatever had entered the Tower.

And his stomach lurched.

Because even in the almost non-existent lighting he could tell that this particular silhouette looked very familiar, indeed.

And for a brief, fleeting moment he was willing, _wanting_ to believe that it _was_ her; that she had again returned to the Tower to stop some dastardly, evil force from running rampant and amuck.

Except that there _were _no evil forces running about the Tower.

He had made sure of that.

So why would she, the country's number-one idol, return to a place that he knew she thought of as nothing more than once-prettied-up prison?

She wouldn't, of course.

And so the only possible, logicalexplanation was, of course, that he was seeing things. Quite possibly thanks to some forbidden, evil, magical force.

And, this in mind, Cullen set his jaw and unsheathed his sword and moved in what he prayed was a silent manner towards the newly-arrived fallacy.

And somewhere in his mind, he registered the sound of a low growl. And—

Wait.

_Mages don't __**growl**__.___He frowned. _Do demons?_

And he remembered Ser Ivan— a fellow Templars and a good, honest man—who had fallen under the spell of one of the Desire Demons who had, on that night, found its way into the tower. And Ser Ivan had been blinded by that demon, tricked by a too-sweet lie that had been placed before him—a lie of a family; of a wife and children and a cozy little home that would be waiting for him at the end of the day, instead of the cramped bunks and glaring mages and stone-cold hallways that the Templars really knew. And then the demon had led Ser Ivan, still feeding him his illusion, to his death. Death at the hands of very woman whose doppelganger Cullen saw now.

And Cullen felt pang after pang of rage, sorrow, and determination. He raised his sword and prepared to attack; and when he was just _feet _away from his target he heard the growling turn into a single, fierce bark and he felt something very large and very solid ram into him at full force, connecting with his armored chest and knocking him over. And as he fell, winded, his sword slipped from his grasp and clattered away, stopping just out of his reach.

But Cullen didn't have time to even _try_ to retrieve his weapon; because whatever had knocked him down was now snarling and snapping and bearing its teeth as it kept him pinned firmly to the ground, apparently _quite_ unhappy about the fact that he had tried to sneak up on it with a sword.

And it was all he could do to keep the _thing_ from sinking its jaws into his windpipe— and then quite possibly feasting on his innards. And just as he was beginning to worry about whether or not his armor would hold up against the forty-two very sharp, very angry spikes that were intent on burying themselves into his flesh, the beast retreated, summoned by its master's call.

Cullen was on his feet in less than a second, his weapon back in hand.

And when he turned back around the room had brightened considerably, illuminated by the flicker of summoned electricity, along with an unnatural bluish glow that hailed from the hand of his demon-illusion.

.X.x.X.

Amell stared.

And blinked.

And stared.

And she wasn't sure whether she wanted to give into her shaking knees and collapse, or ignore them to run forward and just hug the man.

But, considering that he had just come at her with a sword, she ventured that latter of the two actions was probably _not _the wisest.

And next to her, Dog growled. And though he stayed her side, his hackles were raised and his ears were folded back and his teeth were bared and he was _not _taking his eyes off armed and armored stranger. She let her right hand fall from the staff that was holstered to her back and stroke the agitated Mabari once.

And Dog's growl turned into a whine and died out and, reassured by his human's touch, he now dubbed it safe enough to straighten up and close his mouth and relax his muscles, though he kept his ears back and his eyes forward.

His human may have let her guard down, but he wouldn't. Not completely. Because his job was to protect his human— even if she wasn't protecting herself.

.X.x.X.

Cullen stared.

And frowned.

And stared.

And he wasn't sure _what_ to make of the two figures standing in front of him; that tackle had certainly _felt_ real enough and—he studied her features and posture, his gaze coming to rest on her face— she certainly _looked _real enough.

But he knew better than to trust simple appearances.

And there was something in the way she stood, in the way she watched him, that just struck Cullen as _wrong._ But it wasn't the 'I'm-a-product-of-Blood-Magic-slash-lack-of-sleep-come-to-play-with-your-thoughts-and-torment-your-mind' kind of wrong that he was expecting— it was different. Harsher, colder.

_Real_-er.

There was no trace of soft, loving eyes or a playful smile (fake or otherwise) like there had been when he and his thoughts had been at the mercy of the Blood Mages. In fact, it was just the opposite.

There was something in the way she stood that was guarded, tense— but also completely confident, knowing and ready. And there was something in the way she watched him, her eyes focused and bright and hard, holding a sort of icy fire that, for some reason, made him _very_ glad that he had his sword again. And as he studied her, the fleeting thought of _"Changed," _crossed his mind. Though he wasn't exactly sure why or how.

But he didn't have time to figure it out as his attention was drawn away from her face and down to her hand as she moved it. And he was sure that she was about to cast something—more lightning, maybe—and he was on his guard and ready to dodge or deflect or dispel or whatever he needed to do. But her hand remained quite lightning-less, doing nothing more than going to pat the Mabari at her side.

And when his eyes darted back up to her face, narrowed and suspicious, he noticed that her stance had shifted; her feet were together now and her right hand was at her side and the miniature lightning she had held in it previously had disappeared.

And then he noticed that the eyes that she watched him with had also changed; they were no longer hard or bright or lit with any kind of fire at all. They were soft, yes— but not loving. Not even friendly_._ They simply looked…. _tired_.

And as he watched her, wary and unsure, he heard her speak. And she did so quietly, civilly— almost casually— addressing him as she had so many times before.

"Hello, Cullen."

He felt his mouth draw into a thin line, his knuckles white beneath his gauntlets as he clutched he pommel of his sword. His mind was in overdrive, trying to piece together the scene in front of him sort through his still-forming thoughts at the same time.

Then finally, cautiously, he heard himself speak a well. "…Why are you here?"

And she looked at him and blinked, and then looked at him some more. But she didn't answer.  
And Cullen felt something hot and sharp and piercing push against the inside of his chest, and he found himself suddenly annoyed at her silence. "_Well?_"

The Mabari at her side let out a low grow.

But the look in her eyes softened even more, he noticed, and she let her other hand drop to her side, still surrounded only by a pale-blue glow that lit the room. And maybe it was just the shift in the lighting, but Cullen though that suddenly, she looked very, _very _tired.

And finally, sounding drained, she answered, "Do I really need a reason to stand in my own home?"

And Cullen frowned and considered her words. And then he considered telling her to _open her eyes_ and _look around_, because anyone, especially a _mage_, who would willingly return to this place and proceed to call it their "home", destruction and all, was _clearly_ insane.

But Cullen decided that he, too, was tired, and that it wasn't worth it.

And it wasn't like he could really talk, anyways.

So, he settled for scoffing as he sheathed his weapon and slowly turned away. "Do what you like," he said coldly, "Just… put that damn light out."

And then he trudged away, leaving a tired, and now rather confused-looking mage-Warden to stand in the renewed darkness in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Caged Together**  
Chapter 2

Neither of them were sure exactly _how_, but by the following morning, every being in the Tower seemed to have heard that Solana Amell, Mage, Grey Warden, and Hero of Ferelden, had slipped into the Tower sometime late last night.

And that Cullen had been the one to greet her.

Of course, what they _hadn't_ heard was that there had been a small fight and an almost-decapitation that followed her arrival.

For which they both found themselves grateful.

.X.x.X.

She had seen Irving who had smiled at her warmly, and she had seen Greagoir who had given her a quiet but respectful nod (both of which she had returned). And she had seen a few familiar faces of her fellow mages who had fought along-side her at Fort Drakon, as well as the ever-present Templars who, even with their duties expanded to include helping to clean and restore order, stayed true to their Maker-given task of glaring at any mage that passed their way (though something about their 'glares' struck her as odd— they were more wary and cautious— as if intimidation was no longer their number-one goal. Or maybe they just _seemed_ that way after the hordes and hordes of darkspawn). She had even seen a certain overly-enthusiastic dwarf scholar who had greeted her with a chipper wave and a bombardment of gratitude.

And, when she was no longer able to deal with the whispers and glances and constant questions, she retreated to the Library.

Or rather, to what _used _to be the Library.

It, like the rest of the Tower, still showed signs and scars of the battles that had taken place there not so long ago; the shelves were toppled, the tables and chairs were splintered, and many of the books were ripped or burnt or turned to ash.

But they were still there.

And so, with a determined sigh and a roll of her shoulders she set herself with the task of salvaging any of texts that she could.

- o -

She was still in the Library when he found her.

Seated on the floor, right in the middle of the room with books stacked in a circular barricade around her and a bottle of ink, a quill, and a piece of vellum sitting next to her, she was taking inventory of the remaining texts, sorting them as she went. It was easy, now that she had fallen into a routine. First she would take a book from her left, glance at it, and occasionally thumb through it. Then, she would copy down the title, the author, and sometimes a little reminder or note on the vellum in front of her. And finally, she would move the now-sorted book from the pile on her left to one of the ever-growing piles to her right.

It was simple but it was busy. And she was more than happy to pour all her attention into her task at hand.

And it wasn't until Dog let out a low growl and a short bark that she jolted back to the real world and realized that someone else had entered the Library and looked up.

And then she saw him and she muttered, "Oh," and resisted the urge to cover her neck with her hands, choosing instead to greet him with a dull "Hello, Cullen."

Cullen said nothing. Instead, he began to walk around the book-wall that she had encompassed herself with. He was quiet and solemn and distant as he circled her, watching.

And she was overcome with the uneasy feeling of someone who was stranded in the middle of the ocean with nothing but a very thin, very rickety boat to separate them from a very hungry-looking shark.

"Do you need something?" she finally snapped, sounding a little more defensive than she would have liked, "Because I'm busy."

"No," he replied, continuing his pacing.

"Oh," she said, unsure of how else to respond, "Well." And she went back to her task, trying her best to ignore the creak of his armor and feeling of his eyes on her back as she worked.

And finally, after walking a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, Cullen came to a stop and folded his arms behind him and turned to look at her straight-on.

And she could feel her face grow hot.

And beside her Dog whined, inching protectively closer to her.

And she remembered how easily he had knocked the man on his back less than twenty-four hours ago and she was suddenly horribly, horribly glad that she had the hound with her.

Because this man was a Templar, and she was a mage.

And, slayer of the Arch Demon or not, she couldn't help but feel a little unnerved; there was something in the way he stood there looking at her, dressed in his armor with his sword on his back, that made her feel more than a little claustrophobic. Because everything thing about him simply _screamed_ 'Templar'. And the fact that it was Cullen, who had once smiled at her and helped her and treated her like a _human-being_ and not just some empty demon-vessel, just made it that much worse.

And she wondered desperately how much longer he was going to stand there, silent and watchful and guarded. And _then_ she wondered whether or not her running out of the room screaming was really as good of an idea as it sounded when she heard him speak, his voice hard and cold. "You shouldn't have come back."

She almost let the quill slip from her fingers as she looked up, unsure if she had heard him correctly—or if she had heard _him_ at all.

"There's nothing here for you," he continued, gazing dolefully at an over-turned bookshelf, "You shouldn't have come back."

And, before she could piece her thoughts together and think of a response, he was gone, his metallic footsteps sounding in the distance as he walked.

.X.x.X.

Cullen lay on his back on his bed in the all-too-empty Templar Barracks, still suited up in his armor. He had his arms over his eyes, shielding them from the torchlight that danced in the corner of the room. He wasn't trying to sleep, though, just… rest.

And think things over.

And, through the blackness of his shielded eyes, images began to appear and dance around his head laughed at him as they brought _her_ into view:

She was smiling at him as he looked at her over the stack of tomes he had taken from her, giving him her thanks and offering to help him reach his destination. She was watching him, arms crossed, with an expression cold enough to make him shiver as she considered him and his words, her gaze slowly softening and her smile appearing once more. She was sitting in a chair in stone chamber, her eyes flickering beneath their lids as she fought her way through the Fade, no longer aware that stood over her with his sword drawn and his breath held. She was standing in front of him, her had pressed up against the magic wall that kept her out and him in, a look of pained worry carved into her features as she whispered a promise of resolution to him through the barrier. And she was sitting, hunched over her writings as he circled around her and watched her with a cold disdain that she did her best to try and ignore.

And he hated himself. On so many levels. For so many things.

He hated himself for speaking with her, for laughing with her, for _wanting_ her. He hated himself for treating her like he had—first like a friend… and then like a mage.

And he wished, suddenly, that she would just die or disappearor do _something_ so that he could just wipe her from his mindand _never_ have to deal with her again.

And then, right after he thought it, he hated himself for _that_, too.

.X.x.X.

Amell had left the library, her back stiff and her hand hurting, to go wander the rest of the Tower.

She had left Dog behind, unwilling to disturb him from his much-deserved slumber, and was now walking alone along the winding tower steps.

She passed a few people as she went; mages and Templars and Tranquils alike, all busied with some form of labor or another, still trying hard to get the Tower back into a working order.

And she wasn't sure if she felt comforted or unnerved by this.

Just like she wasn't sure whether she felt reassured or frightened by Cullen's presence.

She was glad to see him— really, she was. Because Cullen was someone she knew; a familiar face who knew her not as 'The Hero of Ferelden', but simply 'Solana'. Someone who thought of her as not a Grey Warden, but just a girl—a girl who happened to be a mage.

* * *

_**A/N:** A while ago someone messaged me with questions and advice about Elsie, about how I should bring her in later in the story. I'm curious, what do other people think?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Caged Together**  
Chapter 3

The next week passed fairly without incident.

With the last of the blood having finally been removed from the Tower's floors, the majority of the debris having been gathered up and taken away, and most of the broken pillars and doors and statues having either been replaced or fixed, the Tower no longer seemed so dismal.

In fact, many of the more frequently-used areas of the Tower were beginning to look quite hospitable once again.

And the mages and Templars were once again beginning to stick to their own kind with renewed astringency and the occasional argument over whatever new development had occurred could be heard emanating from Irving's office as both he and Greagoir tried their hardest to get the other to see _their _way of thinking and things were beginning to settle back down and almost, _almost_ seem normal again.

Except the tower was still empty.

And not even an energetic dwarf and curious war-hound and dragon-slaying mage could fill the gap left by so many Templars and Apprentices alike.

And it was this thought that that was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a knock on the Tower door, followed by a creak and a "Hellooo?" that echoed down the halls that caused said mage to jump up from her pile of books and run down the corridor and past a surprised-looking Cullen, to stop, breathless, in front of the new arrivals.

"Solana!" The red-head in the doorway beamed, embracing the other girl, "Oh, it is so good to see you again! Oh, how have you been? And where is—oh!"

And Dog, following in his master's footsteps, came bounding down the hall, tongue hanging out of his mouth and his tail wagging, to greet the familiar faces.

"It's good to see you again—and you too, Dog." Wynne smiled and stepped forward, eyes shining warmly as she greeting the familiar faces. "And ah—the Tower. I don't believe I've realized how much I've missed this old place while I was away." She chuckled, "Ah, but absence makes the heart grow fonder—or so they say."

"Leliana, Wynne…" Amell smiled, looking at the two, "It's good to see you, too."

And by now the commotion had caused quite a few curious heads to poke out from whatever their task was and an audience had gathered behind them, watching the two mages, the dog, and the girl with the Orlesian accent with faint curiosity.

"I—er… Your journey went well, then, I take it?" The younger mage asked, straightening up as she remembered that she was in the Tower and was now being observed by a small audience.

"Thankfully, yes," Wynne smiled, "I suppose everyone is too busy dealing with their own problems to create more. And yours?"

"Mine? Oh, yes, yes. Well enough," she ushered them inside, nudging a barking Dog away from the door as she did so. "I stopped by Redcliffe on the way down—they're looking pretty well, all things considered.

"Wynne? Is that you?" Irving's voice sounded from the tower's hall, "Ah, I was wondering when I'd be able to see you again." He smiled, "I'm glad you came. I don't mean to harry you the moment you walk in the door, but I have a few matters I'd like to discuss with you—when you get the chance."

"Oh, Irving. Yes, yes, of course." Wynne broke away from the crowd, giving Amell one last smile as she did so. "Well, better sooner than later—what's on your mind, Irving?"

And the two of them walked off, engaged in an unheard discussion of sorts as Leliana turned to her friend, he eyes glittering. "Well?" She said encouragingly, "What are you waiting for? Now that there are no longer any demons or darkspawn running about, you are the hostess and this is your home, no? Should you not be offering me a tour?"

And Amell jumped and grinned and took the other girl's hand with an excited, "Oh, right!", and led her down the corridor, too happy at the moment to even notice the look of glaring disapproval that she got from a certain Templar who was standing near the hall's arch.

- o -

Leliana had all but jumped at her friend's offer to be roommates ("Oh, it will be just like old times, no?"), despite the fact that there were a good three other rooms empty and waiting. And Wynne, of course, had reclaimed her old bed in the rooms of the Senior Enchanters. And, with things once again beginning to settle down, Amell found herself feeling a good bit more at peace than she had felt in the past several weeks.

"So, how is Schmooples?"

"Quite well, the little darling! I think he was sad that his mommy had to go and leave him behind, but I left him in the care of a good friend; I expect he will be a good bit fatter when I return home."

"You'd better hope they don't decide he looks fat enough to eat,"

Leliana laughed, "Oh, she wouldn't _dream _of it. She knows how much I love my little Schmooples."

The two girls were sitting down on the first floor, eating a couple of apples that they had grabbed from the kitchen, reflecting on everything from spider-squashing to cheese wheels and just enjoying each other's company.

"The Tower is looking so much better, no?"

"Mm, yes. It is."

And after a pause, "So tell me, Solana, what is it that you plan to do once the Tower is rebuilt?"

"Hmm?" She looked at her bard-friend, shifting her seating on the stone ledge, "I… I don't really know—I haven't thought that far ahead; I mean, the Tower's still got a long way to go before it can be called fixed."  
Leliana laughed lightly, "This is true, yes… But the time _will _come when it is right again… So tell me, what do you plan to do when that time arrives? Will you continue to stay in the Tower, I wonder, or will you begin to miss the wide-open road that you used to wander so freely?"

And something inside of her tugged at her stomach and it must have shown in her eyes because Leliana said quickly, "But that is a long time off, like you said, yes? We should focus on the here and now and not worry about such things until they are much closer. And perhaps by then another option will have presented itself, hm? Come, come," and she sprang up and grabbed her friend's hand, "Let us get back to work; the Tower will not clean itself, you know!"

.X.x.X.

Cullen lingered just at the tip of the hall, obscured from view by the growing mix of Templars and mages that had poked their heads out to see who had come knocking on the Tower's doors.

It was hard to believe that the mage in the doorway was the same girl—no, the same _woman_—whom all of Ferelden was talking about; the same woman who had saved Redcliffe and Arl Eamon and found the fabled Urn of Sacred Ashes in the process; who had returned to the Tower, just when all hope seemed lost, to pull it from its impending doom; who had encountered countless darkspawn and somehow always come out on top and alive.; who had confronted and battled the legendary Arch Demon on top of Fort Drakon in the midst of raining fire and brimstone and death… and _won_.

Because right now she was acting like the same _girl _whom Cullen had watched from his post in front of the Tower Library; smiling and laughing and talking with her friends like she had not a care in the world.

Which meant that it shouldn't be possible.

It _wasn't_ possible.

Because Solana Amell was a mage. Not a Grey Warden, not the Hero of Ferelden—she was a mage.

_Just. A. Mage._

And right now she was standing in the Tower's foyer (_Which,_ he reminded himself, _She's never left— she __**can't**__ have left—because she's a mage and she's not __**allowed **__to leave. And she's __**certainly**__not allowed to leave to go fight __**darkspawn**__, of all things)_, just talking with a friend.

Except….

_Oh._

Right. That friend.

That friend who's obviously notfrom the Tower (_Which means that they had to have met __**outside**__ of the Tower. Which means that she would have had to __**leave**__ the Tower_)_. _That friend that he recognized_._

Recognized because he'd _seen_ "that friend" before. (And he had been tired and delirious and just barely hanging onto sanity when he had, but he _had)._ Along with _her_ and Wynne and a man in Templar armor whom Cullen had not recognized.

When she had returned to the Tower. Which meant she had to have _left _the Tower.

Left to go fight _darkspawn._

Except, that wasn't possible.

…Right?

- o -

He found her dozing in the Library.

She had one arm tucked under her head and the other poised at an angle that made it look as if she had fallen asleep writing mid-word, the quill still in her hand.

"Alistair…?"

_Wha—?_ Cullen, frowned. And it occurred to him that he should probably just Leave. The mage. Alone, but his curiosity getting the better of him, and he halted and returned to her side to look down at her sleeping form.

Her face was calm, though she was frowning slightly, her eyes flickering beneath their lids, signaling her dreaming. And Cullen had the sudden image of the girl in the Harrowing Chamber who he had been assigned to as executioner, should things have taken a turn for the worse. He felt his chest tighten.

And for some wretched, unholy reason, as the Templar looked down at her sleeping form, he found himself unable to resist the sudden urge that had popped up inside him to brush the tiny bit of hair that had slipped its way past her ear and into her face.

And so he did.

And, in her sleep, the clink of his armor and the touch of his metal-gloved finger and the feeling of cold steel on her face served as a kind of reassuring sedative. And her shoulders slumped and her posture relaxed and she settled back into her arms, the frown gone from her features, her slumber resumed in full.

* * *

**_A/N:_**_ Hurray! I actually got another chapter out! Harhar. So um, yeah. Anyways. See that little review option down there? You should totally click it. Yes, you should._


	4. Chapter 4

**Caged Together**

Chapter 4

The morning was cool and crisp when she awoke, the golden-yellow sun shining in through the barred windows of the mages' quarters. (Leliana had awoken her sometime late last night to drag her upstairs to a proper bed.) When she stirred, Dog's stub of a tail could be heard thumping against the stone and he gave a small whine to let her know that he was still there at her bedside (and no doubt waiting for breakfast) and ready to face the day.

Finally, after much encouragement and hand-licking from Dog, and many tired grumbles and half-hearted, playful "go away" shoves from herself, Solana had managed to drag herself out of her warm blankets, run a comb through her hair, and pull on her mage robes before heading down the now growth-free staircase in search of food.

She was greeted at the landing by a nervous –looking new sandy blonde Templar recruit whom she did not know the name of. All the same, she returned his stiff nod with one of her own (though hers was not nearly as panicky), while Dog chose to ignore him altogether, and continued on her way to the Great Hall.

"Oh, Solana," Leliana was seated at the otherwise empty table, fully dressed in a brightly-colored garment that Amell could only assume came from her homeland. "Good, you're up. I was just about to come and wake you. It's not good to sleep so late, you know."

"Thanks, but I think Dog beat you to it," she said smiling. "What's for breakfast? We're hungry."

_- o -_

Leliana had already eaten, but she had gladly stayed to keep Amell company, for which the Warden was very grateful for. As much as she adored and valued her Mabari, he wasn't great for conversation.

Just as she was finishing up her bowl of porridge, she felt Leliana's eyes on her and turned to see a small, almost devious smile on her friend's face.

"Solana," the bard began casually, "You must have been here for a few days now, yes? Have you gone outside at all? You must be sick of staying so cooped up after so much time on the road. How would you like to go outside for a while and get a bit of… exercise?" Dog's ears perked up at the word "outside" and he barked excitedly. "And you can come too, of course."

_x X x_

Tired, blood-shot eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the bunk above their owner as Cullen listened deafly to the gentle snores and early-morning stirring of his fellow Templars.

It had become routine now, Cullen's self-appointed night watch duty; he was always the last to return to the barracks and the first to rise. And though it was true that the lack of sleep was taking its toll on Cullen—both physically and mentally—it was, in his opinion, much better than the alternative.

He was used to, by now, lying awake in the barracks, his sleep-deprived mind flashing images of Uldred's reign and his time in the blood mages' prison before him. He was used to, by now, falling into a fitful, nervous sleep, only to b e awakened by screams that only he could hear or nightmares only he could see. He was used to, even, lying awake in the dead of night, shaking and pale, the still-fresh memories of her and her companions bursting their way into the Templar Quarters, their clothes bloody, their breathing heavy, and their faces determined as they fought their way up towards the Harrowing Chamber. He was used to it, even if he wasn't sure how to deal with it.

Last night, however, had been different. True, he had still lay awake, surrounded by a chorus of his fellow Templars' snores, and true, images had formed in his mind's eye, showing him scenarios that, if given control of his brain, Cullen would have never allowed in the first place; but this time, it was different. For the images that formed in the Templar's mind had been clam, peaceful ones. Nostalgic, almost. Memories and long-forgotten, innocent fantasies of a certain little mage apprentice who still managed to smile in greeting behind her mammoth stack of books.

Heaving a tired sigh, Cullen swung his legs over the side of his bunk and sat up. There was no use in lying here, becoming more and more lost in thoughts. There were towers to clean and mages to guard and hallways to patrol and just… Maker, anything but this. And so, quickly and as silently as he could, Cullen rose from another night of restless sleep, grabbed and donned his armor and weaponry, and left the barracks, before the sun had even peaked over the horizon.

- o -

He had gone through the day so far in a kind of daze: speaking only when spoken to and his feet carrying him around out of pure habit. He had skipped breakfast (or rather, completely forgotten about it) and instead headed for his usual post at the Library doors, busying himself with straightening up the room around the stack of books that the Warden had been sorting last night.

It was nearly mid day now, and the rest of the Tower had long since awoken. Many Templars had offered to relieve him of duty (though he had declined each one), and many mages had scurried by him, throwing him strange looks that, if he cared to, he could probably identify as something of bewilderment and caution.

It was the combination of the light-headedness and foreign pangs of hunger in his stomach that served to finally snap Cullen out of his self-induced trance. Startled, Cullen looked down to find a large red, leather-bound tome in his hand which he had apparently been attempting to fit back into an already full shelf for the past five minutes. Disgusted and a little embarrassed, he slammed the book into a lower shelf with much more force that necessary.

It was only after he had straightened up that two realizations hit him: one being that he should probably try and force some food into himself to avoid passing out, and two, that he had been in the Library all day without a single glace of a certain Mage-Warden. And just as he was entertaining the idea of finding someone else to "guard" the Library for a while in order to go find some nourishment, one of the newest recruits, Raleigh, (brought in after the attack on the Tower) came rushing by the library doors, heavy metal footsteps reverberating off the tower walls, a panicked look on their owner's face.

All thought of food was wiped from Cullen's mind.

He followed Raleigh at a distance, but caught snatches of the man's panicked mutterings and words like, "Stupid magic" and, "That mage," and "Just because she's a Grey Warden…."

Cullen doubled his pace.

They arrived at the door to Greagoir's office, Cullen still hanging back good twenty or so feet as Raleigh came to an abrupt halt and knocked once on the Knight-Commander's door. It was only a pretense, however, as t recruit burst through the door not a second later without even waiting for an answer.

The annoyed voice of the Knight-Commander reached Cullen's ears. "Yes?"

"S-Ser," Raleigh's voice came in a gasp for breath and Cullen had the distinct mental image of Greagoir raising an eyebrow. "S-Ser, it's her, it's the Warden, she's—"

But whatever it was that she was doing, Raleigh didn't get to say, because at that moment a loud crack like thunder, a bright, blue-white flash that illuminated Greagoir's office, a shout in an Orlesian-accented voice, followed by several excited barks reached Cullen's senses. He couldn't restrain himself; Cullen came running into the office, skidding to a halt beside a frightened-looking Raleigh and an almost bored-looking Greagoir, both of whom had gotten up to look outside the window.

It was certainly a sight, what greeted Cullen. There was the Mabari who was happily jumping around his master's feet, barking excitedly and jumping around with his tongue dangling out of his mouth. There was the Orlesian girl, dressed in a simple leather curtaisse, who had her bow in her hands and was shooting arrow after arrow across the rocky beach at a couple of make-shift targets stationed there. There was Wynne ('_Wynne?' _Cullen did a double-take), who was seated on one of the less jagged boulders and drinking something out of a teacup, surveying the scene in front of her and looking mildly amused by it all. And then there was the Warden, her body surrounded by a faint glow as she shot a series of Primal spells at the shower of arrows that her friend was releasing.

First she would cast Ice; and the substance would appear out of nowhere to encase an arrow and cause it to fall, hindered, to the sand. Then, she would cast Lightning; and the bolt would emerge from her palm to strike through the arrows and cause them to crackle and split and join their frozen brothers on the ground below.

And , as Cullen watched, he realized that the two seemed to be making a game of it. The bard would fire her projectiles in different manners—sometimes in arcs, sometimes in straight and steady lines; sometimes one at a time, sometimes bunched together—trying to get them to connect with the targets before Solana (_No, _Cullen corrected himself mentally, _The mage._) could shoot them down.

By the looks of things, they had been at it for a decent while. Arrows littered the beach, either shriveled and fried or coated in about an inch of ice. The ones that _had_ managed to avoid the spells were sticking, straight and proud, out of the targets. Only two un-magicked, un-sunk arrows stuck out of the sand, just inches away from their intended mark. Many yards away stood the two women and the dog. Both the mage's and the bard's faces were glowing in the sun, sweaty but pleased.

It occurred to Cullen that, although they were a fair distance away, Greagoir must have seen them going at this, no matter how deep in paperwork he was buried. The flashes of light from the Warden's magic and the sound of the barking hound at her side were not very hard to miss. He turned to ask Greagoir why, as Knight-Commander of the Ferelden Tower, he had not done anything about this sooner when, to his surprise, Cullen realized that, like Wynne, the man was wearing a mildly amused expression on his face (albeit his looked much more tired).

"Um, S-Ser?" Raleigh's voice sounded to Cullen's right. Cullen turned to see a nervous but determined look on the man's face. He, like Cullen, must have been hoping that their Commander would actually _do_ something about the havoc that was going on below them, instead of just standing at the window, watching the scene play out in front of him.

Greagoir turned around to face the other man. "Wynne is down there," he said slowly, "I believe she'll be able to keep an eye on things… Still," he glanced at the nervous-looking Templar, then at Cullen, who was determined not to let any emotion show on his face. "I don't want her setting any examples." He sighed, "Tell them to at least quiet things down a bit… And not to damage the Tower."

"O-oh." Clearly, whatever the Raleigh had hoped the 'something' was that Greagoir might do, this was not it. "Me? I… uh…"

Greagoir shot the man a look. "Take Cullen with you, then," he snapped. "You both look like you could use some fresh air. I apologize, but," he nodded once towards a stack of un-sorted, un-signed documents on his desk, "I'm afraid I need to take care of these. Don't worry," he added, seeing the grim look on Raleigh's face, "If things really _do_ get out of hand," he gave wry smile, motioning towards his office window, "I'll be able to see."

"I, uh—right. Yes, Ser. Sorry," Raleigh straightened up and gave a quick salute before turning on his heel and heading out, Cullen copying his actions. Behind him, Cullen could hear Greagoir muttering to himself as he seated himself back at his desk, "So much for _Templars don't fear mages…." _

They walked in hurried silence, through the stone hallway, down the many steps of the continual staircase, and out onto the Tower's beach, Cullen all the while trying to ignore the images of her smiling face that had resumed tugging at the corners of his mind. So engrossed was he in attempting to block her out, in fact that he walked straight past Raleigh as the other Templar came to a stop several feet away from her, her friend, and a very angry-looking, growling Mabari.

_X x X_

Even with the excited shouts and the flying arrows and the constant spells and the crash of the lake water against the rocks, Dog smelled them before they were even in view.

And he stopped jumping and he turned, ears perked.

Two men with swords, wearing that armor that always seemed to make his human cringe. And one of those men was _him— _the man who had tried to kill his human—who _would _have killed his human, had Dog not been there to protect her (his human was _very_ lucky to have him around).

And Dog was crouched— no longer happy and barking and wagging his tail, but bristling and snarling and looking very fierce, completely ready to resume his duties and protect his human and be a Good Dog.

And, seeing his actions, his human stopped casting and laughing was now turned to face the same direction as Dog. And her ears were also perked.

_Good,_ Dog thought. _It's easier to protect you when you protect you, too._

Not that _minded_, really. It just made him feel better.

And, seeing his human's actions, Leliana also turned. And so did Wynne.

_Very good. The more people protecting my human, the better._

And, when the two men with swords and the armor-that-makes-his-human-cringe came around into view, Dog let out a vicious snarl. '_If you lay even __**half **__a paw on her, I'll make it so that even my __**chew-toys **__feel sorry for you'_

The man stopped.

Dog was pleased. _You're not as stupid as you look._

But Dog was _not _pleased about the fact that the fact that the other man had _not _stopped. And though he was watching the Mabari with a careful eye, he was still walking towards Dog. And towards Dog's human.

And His Human was also not pleased. In fact, she seemed down-right _nervous. _Dog could tell because he could feel her tense up beside him and heard her shift in place and knew that her eyes were looking from one man to the other and trying to ignore the armor that made her cringe as she did her best to pretend that she _wasn't_ nervous. And maybe her pretending was working on _them,_ but it wasn't working on Dog. `Because Dog knew better.

_X x X_

It took a moment for Cullen's brain to register that he alone was now headed toward the Warden and her friend and was about half way between she and Raleigh before his brain managed to send the signal down to his legs to get him to stop walking.

For a brief moment he realized that all eyes were on him—from Raleigh's nervous glances, the red-head's carefully measured looks of disinterest, Wynne's passive looks of polite curiosity, the hound's snarling stares, and her unreadable expression. Then, the tension was broken as the Orlesian woman stepped subtly but protectively in front of Amell and addressed the men with a cautious courtesy. "May we help you?"

As Cullen opened his mouth to answer, the thought of how ridiculous the bard's protective nature was occurred to him. Was the woman she had so discreetly shielded from the two Templars the very same who all of Ferelden was talking about? Who had felled blood mages and demons and darkspawn and the blighted _Arch Demon_ and come out all the better? Then again, if he were in this woman's shoes, he probably would have done the same thing… had he not been the very thing that the Warden was being guarded _from_.

"Ser Templar?" The mage-Warden had stepped forward to stand beside her Orlesian friend. She had sheathed her staff, though the Mabari who stood guard in front of her, having received no orders to heel from its master, was still growling, fangs bared.

It took a moment for Cullen to realize she was addressing him; "Ser Templar" was not something he was used to being called, especially not by _her._ And for a jolting moment he thought that he might have done something wrong—was she mad at him?—to be addressed in such a formal manner by a girl who usually greeted him by name until he realized that, no, he had done nothing wrong. There was nothing for her to be mad about. (And even if she was, why would it matter? He was a Templar and she was a mage and anger and ill will were common feelings that ran between these two groups.) It was a simple matter of she being a mage and the Hero of Ferelden and him being a Templar stationed at the Circle Tower and that Raleigh was mere feet behind him, listening intently and unsure what to do and that Wynne was a mere feet behind _her, _still watching the confrontation was a mild curiosity.

So, he did one natural thing to do in this situation. He responded.

"Warden." And beside him, he thought he sensed Raleigh wince and could have sworn that a small, microscopic curl had formed on Wynne's lips, but he couldn't be sure because he was too busy trying not to break eye-contact with her, and even if he looked, it would probably be gone by now.

"Is there something you need?" Her tone was courteous, but brief. He could see her eyes pass over to Raleigh and she arched a single brow. "If I recall it's not often that Templars leave their posts. Even more so now with the, ah…. strained numbers." Something flashed in her eyes, but it was gone before Cullen could identify exactly what that _something_ was. "Is something the matter?"

"No," Cullen's voice sounded foreign to him, distant. Next to him, Ser Raleigh gave a cough so quiet that only Cullen could hear. "Nothing life-threatening, at least. The Knight-Commander simply feels that your ah…. _actions _are rather disputable. He requests that you," He glanced around at all three women, "discontinue them. Or," he added as an afterthought, "If you really feel the need to, er…. let lose" a twitch of a smile appeared on the mage's face, "to not make such a, ah… show of it."

Cullen finished his last sentence in a kind of awkward fall, the traces of heat in the pit of his stomach he had not felt since before the Blight resurfacing.

"I see," Amell was surveying the two Templars now with an impassive look, though Cullen got the distinct feeling that she was fighting to keep a straight face. The heat in his stomach doubled and twisted, threatening to make its way up past his neck. "Well, you can tell the Knight-Commander that he needn't worry," she glanced over at her companion (whose expression was equally devoid of any hints as to what either of them might be thinking), and finally lay a hand on the collar of her Mabari who, however reluctantly, let his growls die out. "I wouldn't want to upset the Commander. We'll stop—really, you only needed to ask. Although," a flash of a smirk flitted across her face, "Next time, only one of you needs to leave your post to do it."


End file.
